


an ode to chess and to love

by Rozjozbrod



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chess, F/M, I fucking hate tagging, Sex, the queen's gambit season 1 episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozjozbrod/pseuds/Rozjozbrod
Summary: Canon-compliant fic of the Queen's Gambit, season 1 ep 6, when Beth and Benny sleep together.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & Benny Watts, Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 45
Kudos: 298





	1. Chapter 1

Nothing made Beth Harmon noteworthy until she started beating boys in chess. At least, that’s what she was made to believe about herself, because until Mr. Sheibel had taught her about the sixty-four squares and their glorious pieces, she had passed through her own life as a ghost.

But once she began to beat them, and beat them decisively, heads began to turn her way. Scornful and curious eyes seemed to follow her everywhere, through the hallways of her school, and in the back of taxis in bustling cities. It didn’t matter, the fame-- she still treated herself as some half-thing, some being of sinew and smoke, because, despite their newfound interest, none of them ever understood her anyway. 

Reporters thought they did; they’d ask her why, of all games, she had gravitated so naturally towards chess. The question was a good one, but she never divulged her true feelings to those faceless, pinstriped-suit journalists. She told them that she liked being in control, and they would nod, scribble in their notes that it made sense. Obviously, a girl of such an unfortunate childhood and peculiar nature would play a game out of which she could build a worldview. They’d leave with a tip of their hats and a whisper of cigarette smoke without a second glance, and she would slink back to her comfortable board, the truth nuzzled deep in her chest.

What she didn’t tell them was that chess came to her as naturally as anything. People, in general, are always enamored with the idea of destiny, of fate, and she was no exception. Maybe it was some residue of religion left behind from Methuen’s Home for Girls, or maybe it was something greater still. The truth of her gift was simple: she was fated to love chess. She loved it more than she could ever love anything else. 

Obviously, no one could know the truth. Love was a motive too easily manipulated, to inherently personal. In a game, it would become a weapon, and what more awful fate was there than being killed by what you love most? It had to be her secret, and her secret only. 

Love of chess was the ingredient that drove her. Not competition, not domination. It was also the reason, she believed, that no one could really beat her. No one had quite so much at stake--- opponents would shake her hand after a loss, and go about their days afterwards. But for her, losing was like being gutted, and it was all she could do to shake her heartbreaker’s hand over the blood and carnage. Only the Russian-- only Borgov --- seemed to love it as much as she did. That’s why he terrified her. 

Harry Beltik hadn’t loved chess. He’d told her himself, actually. It’s why he had left her. Townes didn’t love it either; he loved the spectacle, the photographs. And Benny… She couldn’t tell if Benny loved chess. Many things about Benny were an enigma, in truth. He dressed like a cowboy and carried a knife on his hip, but the leather jackets didn’t suit him, and what cowboy played chess, anyway? He was friendly, but utterly unbeatable, and he was strange to look at until he smiled. He was slender and non-demeaning in stature, but he had a subtle charisma that could lift a room. She could hardly tell, when she was around him, if she liked him or hated him. 

But he was a good player. And if she was going to beat Borgov, she needed him. When he’d mentioned her coming to New York over beers at the tournament, she’d agreed easily. 

When she first walked into his basement apartment, she had wondered what Alma would say if she’d seen her then. Her poor mother-- there was still an ache in her heart whenever she thought of her. Alma came to her in strange moments; when she heard a twinkling of piano in the distance, when she saw a familiar shade of lipstick, or heard the rattling of empty bottles. And she’d felt her in Benny’s apartment, as if she was saying, ‘Oh, Beth,’ in the quiet, resigned voice she’d used only a few times. But Alma, more than anyone, had known that Beth loved chess. She would have understood her being with Benny. 

And so they studied. They played game after game until her eyes glazed over and all she could see when she closed them was black and white squares. Day in and day out, she pushed herself to read. Strategize. Regroup. Benny was helpful in the sense that he was technical-- perhaps that was how he had beaten her before. She was as intuitive as a lover, but he was as calculating as a snake. After weeks of practice, imitating him and growing into her own, she felt herself playing better, smarter chess than she’d ever played in her life.

That night, when Benny had mentioned that people were coming over, her gut instinct had been annoyance. She couldn’t afford any distractions. But Cléo and the boys were good enough company, and soon Benny had challenged her to a game of speed chess that she couldn’t refuse. Ten dollars a game was high stakes, but she knew that she was in the best mental shape of her life. A part of her was aching to know if she was worth anything.

She won. She won over and over and over. Cléo had seemed impressed by her, and then bored after the games dragged on. Even the other two players, who had been worthy opponents, felt the joy leave them after a while. Only Benny kept playing, and a few times, Beth had let her gaze rise from the board to his eyes. They were deep blue, and focused. 

“Again.” He said. “Again.”

So they played. She beat him, again. Again. Pretty soon she held more money in her hand then the prize money of the state tournament that she’d just beaten him in. And still, he asked for more. Her eyes fell upon his again, her eyebrows creasing in quiet discovery, and she saw beneath his eyes the deep heartbreak of a lover, trying to hold a failing marriage together. He kept his gaze fixed on the board. Something sadistic in her whispered to dig the knife in deeper and twist. 

“Again.” She demanded.

“No.” 

This time when he looked up, she knew she’d wounded him. Not his pride. But she’d broken him on a level that she knew all too well -- she knew it when she left Jolene, she knew it when she found Alma, dead in the hotel room. She knew it when she lost her birth mother and when Harry Beltik left her, alone, in the devastatingly quiet house. Pain that deep only spurred from loving something and losing it. She regretted it immediately.

Cléo clapped for her, and then the guests took their cue. With a swoop and two kisses on her cheek, Cléo and the boys left with empty promises that she’d see them in Paris in a few weeks. As Benny pushed the door shut, Beth felt the vastness of the room. 

“What?” She asked. 

“Nobody has done that to me in fifteen years.” He replied. She didn’t ask if he meant broken his heart or beat him in the game-- they were one and the same. She knew that now. 

“Not even Borgov?”

“Not even Borgov.”

She felt a glow of pride in her chest. “And I’m sober as a judge. As Alma would say.”

He looked at her now-- perhaps understanding the depth of referencing Alma, or perhaps not. But she felt it was the first time he truly looked at her, and saw her. Not as the small, mousy girl of fifteen he had met so many years ago, but as the person she had become. Not a kid from Kentucky but as a winner he could believe in. He seemed, for a moment, almost overwhelmed by it.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I, myself, am not.”

He crossed to his bedroom, and Beth felt quite unmoored, as if she’d missed something. His gaze had been so intense. He bid her goodnight, and she moved to the living room to start clearing up, and setting her bed up for the night.

All of a sudden, she felt his hand upon her elbow. She turned quickly, and found his eyes were still deep and dark, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out. She felt quite sure that whatever he said would finally reveal something of his true character to her.

“Yes?”

With one arm braced upon his door frame, the other gripping her arm, he blinked and said, almost cautiously, “Do you still like my hair?”

She was taken utterly aback. She’d almost forgotten; she’d been sitting in a dingy college bar beside him, weeks ago, heart pounding with the unbridled thrill of her first win. Though he’d said nice things, and congratulated her, she knew that he had been raging on the inside at his defeat. A lock of unkempt blond hair had fallen in front of his face and she’d brushed it away, as easily as she’d moved her pawns into position on the board. He’d stiffened so much that she felt almost guilty.

“I like your hair.” She’d mumbled, but it was only to cover herself. For a moment, she had imagined herself beside him, and he knew it. 

“I’m sure you do.” He’d stood up, then, then told her under no uncertain terms, that sex would not be a part of their New York arrangement. 

She’d shrugged it off as a fair let-down, agreed to his terms, the next day, she’d driven with him for hours to New York City, and since then she’d been thinking of chess, of chess, of only chess. 

Until now. Did she like his hair? The moment between them had been so fleeting, and so blurred around the edges by alcohol that she’d hardly spared a thought to why she’d done it in the first place. If it was lust that had driven her hand to touch him, then she could easily respond yes to his question. Surely, if she’d desired him then, she could desire him now. But if she’d meant to dominate him, to end him with finality like she’d done in competition, she should respond no. The competition was over, they were friends, and he’d been helping her immensely. It mattered why she’d done it, she realized. 

She couldn’t figure it out. Why had she brushed her fingers across his face like that? Why had he let her? It was natural, instinctive. She hadn’t thought about it, she’d just done it. Touching Benny like that… well, it had been as intuitive as her chess. 

“Yes.” She breathed. 

In a second, his lips were pressed against hers. Even after having slept with two others, kissing was still something so foreign to her. She had hardly kissed the first man she’d been with, and Harry had been so stilted in bed, so awkward. Benny wasn’t like that-- he kissed her with a single-minded passion, all open-mouthed and wandering hands, and she realized with a jolt that this is what people meant when they spoke of electricity between lovers. He wound his fingers through the short hairs on the base of her neck, pulling the ribbon from her hair, and it felt so good, so unbelievably good, that she sighed into his mouth. 

They stumbled into his room, and soon she was pressed up against the wall. It was all she could do to keep up with him, meet him kiss for kiss. She’d never really realized how soft lips were, how pliable. He kissed her and kissed her and then she tasted his tongue, and her thoughts began to lose all coherence and order. 

Soon, his hand began to work its way under her shirt and to her breast-- for a moment, she thought to be ashamed of how fast her heart was beating, then quickly forgot about it. His warm palm closed around her and squeezed and she moaned, quietly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered coming upon a scene like this in high school. She fought back a laugh. Oh, if Margaret could see her now. 

She wondered if she’d ever grow accustomed to it, the feeling of being naked in front of someone. As Benny rid her of the rest of her clothes, she wished she could have had a sip of whatever he’d been drinking that night to still her nerves. How could his eyes, which were so blue in the daylight, be so dark now? As he pushed her on the bed and she prepared herself for the inevitable act, she almost hoped that he would turn the lights off. 

Beth had always wondered about sex. She had seen a few teenagers outside Methuen’s, once, kissing deeply near the bushes, and she had watched the boy’s jaw as it moved, and the way his hands had wandered over his companion’s body. It had made her mouth go dry to see it. But when she’d finally lost her virginity, she had mostly wanted it to be over. All of her interactions with Harry had gone quickly, and they’d always left her a bit unsatisfied. She figured that sleeping with Benny would be the same -- that in a few moments, he would press himself into her, she’d feel a brief, painful stretch down below as her body accommodated him, and then he’d roll over when he was done. That’s how it had always gone with others. 

But he seemed to be taking his time. He kissed her neck, her ear lobe, her collarbone. He kept coming back to her lips. She didn’t protest, in truth it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but she did wonder why he bothered. It wasn’t until his mouth dipped lower, to her breast, that she realized that he was as methodical in bed as he was playing chess. First, his tongue grazed her nipple, then circled the soft areola; he sucked on her nipples until they were painfully hard-- she hadn’t even known, really, that she could be as turned on as she was then. She could feel an ache building between her legs, and for the first time, thought that she could enjoy having sex with him.

But he still wouldn’t rush. He moved his mouth lower still, biting and sucking at her skin until he was nearly nestled between her legs. His breath was hot as he breathed, kissing her thighs and running his hands over the skin of her chest and torso.

She propped herself up on her elbows, cheeks pink.“Aren’t you going to fuck me?”

He stopped to look at her. He was quite the sight, lips pink from kissing her, eyes dark and hair a mess. “I’m going to fuck you.” He said, almost matter of fact. His voice was deeper than she remembered, almost haggard. “But not yet.”

It made her heart stop, and the ache she felt sharpened, and she decided that she’d let him do whatever he wanted with her. She leaned her head back on his pillows and closed her eyes. 

At first he was gentle; his tongue moved over her sensitive spots without ever staying too long, and her whole body felt the breadth of it. But he began to map her body and the places that she sighed, the spots where her body tensed with pleasure, and the feeling became intense. She felt she was moaning more often than not, now, and he showed no signs of slowing down. It was when he pressed a finger into her that her vocalizations took shape: “Oh, God.” 

He seemed to like hearing her take the Lord’s name in vain, and pressed his finger in deeper. She moaned again. Now his pace was relentless, but with every breath she whispered a symphony of, “God, oh God.” It felt like he was building towards something; every twist of his finger, every graze of his tongue felt more and more intense. Her muscles began to tighten and she did the only thing she could think to do: she grabbed his hair and tightened her fingers at the roots, pressing him ever so slightly closer to her. Then with a gentle moan, she felt the pressure release and her pleasure peak, and her body relaxed. 

“Oh.” She whispered.

He pressed a kiss to her thigh, then moved back up the bed to her. He seemed on the edge of saying something when she pulled him to her lips and kissed him. She felt his lips turn upward to a smug smile. They stayed that way for a while, just kissing, and Beth registered faintly that this was the longest she’d ever just kissed someone. When he finally pulled back to look at her, her lips were tingling.

“Has no one ever done that to you?” 

“Yes.” She could hardly speak. “Or, no.”

“Yes or-”

She pulled his mouth back to hers, wanting to feel his lips again. “Harry never did that to me.” 

“I always thought he was an idiot.” Benny grinned. 

Not long after, Benny was naked too. When they finally had sex, Beth was back into semi-familiar territory. It hurt, a bit. She felt slightly crushed by the weight of his body on her, slightly confused about how she was meant to move her body. Mostly, she felt powerless being underneath him, and every movement of his hips exacerbated how uncomfortable she was. But she knew it would be over soon, it never took long. Suddenly, Benny lifted himself onto his elbow to look at her, and must have seen that her eyebrows had been scrunched in slight pain. 

“You okay?” He asked.

“Fine.” She lied.

“You’re not.” He pulled out of her, gently. “Let’s try something else.”

He moved to lay on his back on his pillows, and at first, Beth just watched him. He grinned. “Enjoying the view?”

She had been, a bit. She liked the look of his lean body and how he caught the light. If she had been a painter instead of a chess player, she would have taken note of how the light from his lamp caressed his face just so and copied it onto a canvas. If she had been a pianist, she could have written a score of light, shimmering notes to mimic her heartbeat with his gaze fixed on her. Were she a poet, she could have written lines in iambic about his skin and how it shone like moonlight in a dimly lit basement. But, alas, being only a chess player, she kept her mouth shut. 

She crawled to him, and this time lowered her body over his. Like this, she realized, there was much less discomfort. She could control how much she moved, how slowly. He placed his slender hands on her hips and watched her through his eyelashes. She began to set a rhythm, and after a while, she began to feel no pain at all, only pleasure. She lowered herself completely and watched his eyes flutter shut--- she liked this position for that reason too. Before, when his face had been covered by his hair and shadow, she hadn’t been able to watch him. She did now, and was surprised by the myriad of expressions on his face-- of lust, of hunger, of tenderness. She watched his lips form her name before he managed it.

“Oh, Beth.” 

This wasn’t chess-- but maybe the journalists had been right when they decided that the game was her worldview. Because watching Benny fall under her power, helpless to stop her moves--- well, it felt like chess. It felt like the moments right near the end, when most of the pawns were taken, and the board had begun to empty to just the queens and the knights. Every move became more precious then. She knew that she was moments from beating him, and the look in his eyes made it clear that he knew it too. How long could they labor under pretense? 

Then, a countermove. Benny grabbed her arm and flipped them, so that Beth was back on her back, and him back on top. “Flip over.” He told her. 

She did, this time, her stomach on the bed, Benny behind her. He pressed a kiss to her back, right on her spine, and she felt goosebumps erupt up her arms. When he entered her this time, she felt no discomfort at all. Her hands tightened on the sheets and she watched the light reflect off her small, silver watch. Every time he pressed into her, it was as if she was watching the ocean, and the waves cresting and flowing towards the sand. If this was chess, she was about to lose.

So she played her final piece. “Oh, Benny.” 

He had had an inkling, somewhere in the back of her mind, as to why he had refused her advances back in the bar so many weeks ago. It was the same reason that they had managed to play so much chess in a basement -- they were friends, and he only thought of her as such. But over the course of the night, what with her beating him in chess and subsequently breaking his heart, she had a suspicion that his feelings had changed. And this was the final test-- if he loved her, hearing his own name on his lips like this would surely be his undoing. 

“Fuck.” He whispered, and she knew she was right.

Later, they had lain on his bed, their positions largely unchanged. As their heartbeats slowed, Beth had felt his soft breath on her back, and had hoped, naively, that he would tell her. No one had told her that they loved her before--- not Jolene, the day she left the orphanage, not Alma, either. Harry had told her that he had gotten his teeth fixed for her, but he had been so utterly indifferent to him in the first place that it hardly felt like it counted. But she wanted Benny to say it, to admit that he loved her while their bodies were still intertwined. 

“You should play the Sicilian.” He said.

It broke her heart. Chess. He was thinking about chess. Perhaps it was a bit hypocritical of her to chastise him about that, but she had gotten her hopes up. She told him goodnight with a shade of coolness to her voice that surely would catch him off guard.

If she’d thought about it any longer before going to sleep, she would have realized that they were the same thing to him: her chess and his love were, inexorably, intertwined. He loved her. He loved chess. She loved chess. She… 


	2. a (not so) happily ever after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to @idealistic_imaginings who left a comment so kind and wholesome on my first chapter that I had to write more. This chapter is how I believe a Benny x Beth reunion would go, post-Russia.

Someone in the rows ahead of her was coughing. Normally the sound wouldn’t bother her too much, but this time, Beth felt her fingernails pinching into the palm of her hand and she resisted the massive urge to ask the stewardess to change her seat. Relaxing her fists, she directed her attention to the window, and to the breadth of the world outside. The airplane cast a tiny shadow on the landscape below, and from this divine distance, the ice-capped mountains looked like molehills, the clouds like candy floss. All of it was set aglow by a sloping, golden sunset, and in the carry-on baggage by her feet was nestled the trophy in which her first and last name were etched. She consciously told her shoulders to relax a fraction; everything was in its proper place. Then, from the front, Beth heard another cough. 

She fought back a noise in the back of her throat, something akin to a growl, and stood. She walked down the aisle, a bit ungracefully lurching her weight onto the seats of unsuspecting passengers, and headed towards the bathroom. Gratefully finding it unoccupied, she pulled the folding door open, then slid the latch shut. 

The woman looking back at her through the tinted airplane mirror could have been a stranger. Her auburn hair was sleekly set in place, curling about her cheeks. Her rouge was unblemished, and not a button was out of place on her coat, yet Beth felt stifled and overwhelmed. She wished she had a window to open, a cigarette to light. But she’d given that up, along with the drinking, to focus on her win in Russia with Borgov.

_Fucking Russia_. She’d gotten in trouble with the self-important people in American government for overstaying her tournament and ditching her escort. After playing a few, laughably easy games of chess in a snowy park, her escort had come back with reinforcements, and this time, he hadn’t asked her to come to the airport. She’d been prodded and pushed aboard by men in suits with hard lines on their faces. 

Now, Beth splashed a bit of water from the tap onto her face. The Russian send-off was not what made this bathroom feel so claustrophobic. It was, more or less, what she should have expected, being an American who mingled with the Soviets. Her hands shook as she tossed more water onto her face, and she vaguely wondered what the hell was the matter with her, and why she felt so unmoored.

She pulled open the restroom door and walked the few feet towards the curtain that separated first class from business. She startled the passengers sitting near the front as the curtain ripped open. 

“Do you have a cigarette?” She demanded to one.

Later, back at her seat, Beth bounced her leg, the cigarette between her fingers doing little to stem her panic. She’d smoked it dry before even thinking about it. She waved the stewardess over to buy a pack. The person in front was still coughing. Beth smoked some more.

By the time the pilot announced that they would soon be touching down in New York City, her throat hurt. Wheels screeched on tarmac, and Beth gripped the seat rest with one hand, and her cigarette with the other. As passengers pulled their luggage from overhead bins, they shot her death glares that she decided were justified, them having inhaled the second-hand smoke of nearly a full pack of cigarettes. She placed the one she’d just started between her lips, and pulled on her sunglasses and coat, before grabbing her own suitcase. The stewardess wished her a pleasant day, and Beth hardly spared her a glance underneath her glasses. 

The airport was shiny and bright. Beth’s heels echoed on the linoleum tiles as she made her way towards customs. She passed through easily, perhaps too easily considering her dalliance with the Soviets, and then walked towards the green-illuminated EXIT sign and out to the line of taxis.

“Beth!”

She stopped dead. She knew the voice before she turned, but didn’t expect the combination of dread and joy to flood her chest. There, underneath a baggage claim sign, stood Benny, in all of his easy-grace and frustrating cockiness. He still wore leather, and she guessed that his knife still hung loosely at his waist.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded. She quickly dropped her cigarette and stepped on it with her heel.

He sauntered over. “A simple hello would suffice. Or a thank you, if you’re feeling generous.”

“I’m not.”

He looked at her with his homeward blue eyes, his half-laugh not gone yet from his face, despite her clear displeasure at seeing him there. “You’re smoking again.”

“I don’t want a lecture.”

“I don’t want to give you one.” He jested back. “I’m only the chauffeur.”

She frowned. “You’re driving me to Kentucky?”

“No.” He grabbed her bag from her shoulder, and heaved it over his own. Somehow, the heavy bag made him look even skinnier than usual. “You’re coming with me to the city.”

“Am not.” 

“Well, then, I guess I’m stealing your bag.” He started walking towards the parking lot. He called over his shoulder. “There’s nothing invaluable in here, is there?” 

Despite her foul mood and the stench of tobacco in her hair, she fought a smile. 

In the car, Beth was quiet. Benny played the radio, and tapped the steering wheel to the beat. She had been expecting him to make small talk about Russia, or maybe for him to gloat about coming to her aid. He said nothing at all, but whistled happily with the window rolled half-down, driving one handed.

Soon, she couldn’t help it, and slammed the radio off. “You’re not going to ask me anything?”

He glanced at her as the East river glittered to his left in the setting sun. “Do you want me to?”

“I beat Borgov.” She told him, triumphantly.

He looked back at the road. “I know.”

“I’m the world champion.”

“I know that too, Beth.”

“You’re not the least bit curious about it?” Demanded Beth. 

“I’m plenty curious.” He replied, easily, switching lanes. “But between you and me, there’s another conversation I’d rather be having.”

She felt her heart drop, and dread set in again. All she could hear was the sound of his engine, and the bustle of a city drawing nearer and nearer. Then he laughed, just a bit, and turned the radio back on. “Thought so.” He said.

She sat, silent and seething, until she started recognizing the streets and the people. For as much time as they had spent inside, studying, playing chess, and strategizing, Beth had seen a lot of Benny’s neighborhood. It was nothing fancy; a few coffee shops hinted at the inevitable crawl of gentrification from Manhattan, but other than that, the buildings were full of life. Kids played ball in the streets, and old people sat in creaky chairs on balconies, watching the world go by. For a few, dangerous weeks, Beth had felt at home here. 

Benny turned the corner on his street, parked, and turned the engine off. Beth felt a strange gravitational pull towards him in the sudden, deafening silence, and she raised her eyes. He looked back at her with the same resigned, quiet sadness that she felt. In another life, maybe this is what domesticity with Benny would have been like. Them, bickering and stubborn in this old car, in this doomed neighborhood. 

Then he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Come on, then.”

Benny carried her bags as she descended his staircase, into his gloomy apartment, but before she even reached the door, she could hear sounds of merriment inside. For a brief moment, Beth wanted to bolt -- but with Benny blocking the escape route back up, she knew she had no choice but to go forward. She pushed open the door.

Cheers and applause reached her ears, and as soon as the door could fit her through, she was pulled into a party. Everyone who had helped her on her way to victory was there: the twins, Harry, Townes, and a few others that Beth recognized from tournaments. Jolene sat with a few friends in the corner, smoking weed and wearing a smile as bright and proud as Beth had ever seen. 

They took her coat and clapped her on the back, handing her a plate of food and a fork. Beth could hardly believe that all of these wonderful, smart people could have ever rallied behind her the way that they did. She knew that she didn’t deserve it; she had broken Harry’s heart, as well as Benny’s, and had bled Jolene’s college fund dry to pay for her entrance fee to the championship in Russia. The twins had given up playing chess after Beth had defeated them, mercilessly, and Townes had come to her aid in Russia because he was a better person than she’d given him credit for. She felt her chest and throat tighten with emotion that threatened to pour out of her in waves of gold and silver. But their joy was infectious, and pretty soon she felt just as at home with them as she’d felt anywhere before in her life. 

Harry told her that he was going to college, and that he’d met the young woman beside him, named Mary Jo, in one of his accounting classes and that they were going steady now, and that he was teaching her to play chess. The twins told her about their new business schemes, and judging by their pressed shirts and shiny shoes, she could already tell that they had struck it gold. Jolene and her friends were impassioned by the world around them and enamored with the thought of molding it, like clay, to a better place. Townes had just been hired by the Washington Post to be an event photographer, and had just moved into an apartment in Brooklyn. Everyone ate and everyone drank, and everyone cheered Beth’s accomplishments and her win with Borgov.

Benny laughed and joined in, playing speed chess with willing parties for a while, but then as the night went on he grew aloof from the group, and vanished into his room. Watching him go, Beth wished that the party would dissipate like the one with Cleo’s friends had, and that Benny would come back to her, ask her if she liked his hair, and kiss her like he had so long ago. But his door stayed shut, and it drew everyone’s eye like a dead body.

Harry and Mary Jo were the first to leave, then Townes. The twins drank the rest of the beer, then stumbled out, and Jolene and her friends left last, but not before Jolene pulled Beth aside as her friends donned their coats. 

“You alright, Cracker?”

Beth smiled in a way she knew would not fool her oldest friend. 

“You going to tell me what’s going on in that mysterious, white head of yours, or you going to make me guess?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.” Beth replied. 

“Here’s what I know.” Jolene said, confidently. “You’re a world champion. You’ve got all of us behind you, and you’re not finished yet.”

Beth’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

“And don’t go forgetting about that money.” 

Beth laughed, despite herself, and hugged Jolene goodbye. They left with friendly waves, and then the door shut heavily behind them, and the crushing silence returned. Beth looked at Benny’s door, and knew that it wouldn’t open to her again. The thought made her so inexplicably sad. 

Maybe all roads lead back to him. After all, he was the character most constant in her story, most influential on her chess. She’d stolen a magazine with his face on it to learn about his games before she knew anything about the way he kissed. He’d been the only one to beat her, and beat her consistently, for years. And, though she felt terribly girly to admit it, he'd been the only one that made her heart race, who made her lips burn and her knees weak. 

So maybe she had to choose him. Maybe it had to be her choice to open that door. She made up her mind and made a beeline for it, turning the knob and pushing it open. Her heart was in her throat.

“Benny.” 

His body was curled away from the door as he lay on his inflatable mattress. “I knew you’d do that.” His voice was so sad.

“Do what?”

“I knew you’d choose me now, when you’ve lost everything.”

Beth felt like she’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

The mattress squeaked and shifted under his weight as he sat up to face her. He kept his eyes on the floor. 

“You’ve lost everything.” He repeated.

“What are you talking about? I won!” She sputtered. “I beat Borgov, Benny. I beat him!”

Benny stayed silent on his mattress, eyes on the floor. She hated him for it.

“I’m a world champion!” She yelled. She was getting angry, because every word felt like a lie. “I’ve done things that you could never have done, and you’re just sulking-”

“So, what will you do now, oh Great Beth?” He demanded, finally looking up. “Going to go to college, like Harry? Venture capitalism or whatever the hell the twins do?”

She sputtered in anger, but her heart sank into the floor. This was it; this was the reason she’d been so anxious on the flight home, why she’d been so hesitant to leave Russia. This was her fear, and Benny was breaking her heart with it. She was too furious with him to see it clearly. Everything had led to the fight with Borgov, from the first moment she picked up a chess piece with Mr. Sheibel. And now that it was over, her path forward was no longer clear, and Benny knew it. She loathed him for saying it out loud, for giving it power. “You don’t know anything about me, Benny Watts-”

“I do.” He stood up. “I know you better than you think.”

“You don’t.” Her voice was venomous. 

“You think I don’t know what it’s like? Building up to one moment for years, and then finally reaching it and realizing that you don’t know what comes next? You think I haven’t been there?” They had never yelled at each other like this before, never with such pain in their voices. “I _love_ chess, Beth. I love it as much as you do-”

“Chess is all you love.” She spat. 

“Of course it is.” He replied. “And don’t act like it’s not the same for you. You’re the one who left.”

And there it was: the moment that still ached in her chest to think about. The sting of losing had been too much and she had drunk herself into a stupor, wreaking havoc on everything and everyone around her. She remembered his voice, over the phone, and how it felt like they could only ever say what they felt through the half-anonymity of the call. That was the only time he ever dared say soft things like: _I miss you,_ or _will you stay with me?_

But she had left him, and she’d done it on purpose. She’d called him from a hotel, after losing to Borgov the first time she’d played him. Her voice had been emotionless, cruel. Honestly, she had hardly felt the cool curve of the phone in her hand, and had called him in an anguished daze.

_“You shouldn’t be by yourself, you know what happens.”_ He had said.

_“Maybe that’s what I want.”_

_“What, to get drunk?”_

_“Yeah, good and drunk. Fucking bombed. And maybe high too, why not?”_

_“You wouldn’t if you were with me.”_

_“I know.”_

_“What if I said go ahead, get drunk. Would you come back then?”_

_“Benny, I don’t know what I’m doing. Or going to do.”_

She’d hung up on him not long after that, feeling a sick sort of joy at the idea that he could have been hurting on the other end, a dial tone in his empty apartment. And now here they were, yelling at each other again because neither of them could say what they really wanted to.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Benny, I was messed up.”

“I know.” He seemed to soften a bit, too. “But that’s the problem with us, isn’t it? We’ll always put chess first. We don’t have a backup plan, we don’t have anything else to fall back on. Not like they do.”

Everything seemed to be swimming before her, and when she blinked, big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She saw them drip all the way to the ground, and her breath came in gasps.

“Fuck.” He whispered, and then suddenly his arms were around her and she was crying in his shoulder, and the moment seemed so oxymoronic; his neck was so warm, and his gentle touch on her shoulder was so familiar, but he had been the one to make her cry like this in the first place. 

“I’m sorry, Benny.” She cried, though she didn’t know what she was sorry for. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey.” He said, gently. He pulled her out of his arms, and put his hands in her hair, his thumbs poised to wipe her tears away. He did, and it felt so good that she nuzzled her face into his palm and closed her eyes. “Beth, don’t cry.”

She kept her eyes closed, savoring being this close to him, and took deep, calming breaths.

“Beth, I can’t love you.” 

She tensed. The first time they had fallen into bed together, she had hoped so badly that he would say those three words to her. When he’d called her in Russia, she'd thought he would say it too. Nothing prepared her for him to say that he couldn’t --- she didn’t feel triumphant or sexy, she felt exhausted. Exhausted from the plane, from the tears, from the yelling. She felt his heart hammering under his shirt, and felt sickened.

Then, he spoke again. “But I know you can’t love me, too.”

‘I could.” She looked up at him. “Maybe I could, Benny. If you gave me time.”

He smiled, sadly. “You can’t love us both. Chess and me.”

“Why not?”

“Because chess means pitting us against each other. It means us as competitors, us hurting each other. It means travelling and strategy and winning and losing and we can’t do that if we’re in love.”

She knew that he was right, and put her face back against his chest. 

“But I’ll never want anyone but you.” He said, tenderly.

“And I’ll never want anyone but you, either.” 

He held her close, until it felt like they were slow dancing, rocking from side to side. She wanted to kiss him so badly, to pull him closer still and feel his breath upon her cheek. The best, and worst part now, was that she knew he’d let her. 

And so she did. His lips were soft and warm on her own, and they wanted her as much as she wanted him. He traced his fingers along the line of her jaw until they became wrapped in her hair, and she knew how the rest of this story went. His black t-shirt went first, then her coat and blouse. The whole time, their lips never left each other’s --- the first time they had done this, they had been in such a rush. His kisses had been blazing and insistent, and had left little marks beneath her breasts and in between her thighs. But now they were as soft as feathers, and as life-giving as a sea breeze. 

When he touched her, she knew why she could never want anyone else. No one else knew her body as intimately as her mind, no one else could have graciously, and sadly accepted second place. So she sighed and she kissed him deeper, wishing she could just put everything into how they moved together. 

She forgot, sometimes, just how closely she could hold him, and just how soft his skin was. His hair had grown since they’d last been together, and he moved more quietly. She felt sure that if someone were in the room next door, they would not have heard a thing, and Beth felt so lucky to be in a space that only she and Benny would ever know. He kissed her temple and the apples of her cheeks, her collarbones and ribs. She kissed the tips of his fingers and the softness of his belly, and when he was finally inside of her she laced her hands together with his and moved as lazily and as hungrily as she wanted. 

They lay together, after, and he asked her if she would stay.

“For a while.” 

That was all they could give each other, even if it broke both of their hearts. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments (if they're nice) are always appreciated !


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